


Pack

by Evergreene



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evergreene/pseuds/Evergreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon after liberating their first villa, Agron notices a young wolf that bears a strange resemblance to the newly-freed Nasir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack

Agron first sees the wolf the night after they take the villa. It was an act guided by love and fruitless hope and he curses it with every breath, knowing they have wasted time, blood and strength of muscle freeing those who stand of little consequence to their cause. 

From his chosen perch high on the stone wall that borders the villa, he gazes at the crowd gathered in the sandy courtyard below. A single camp fire in the centre of the yard provides both light and warmth, throwing shadows that caress milling bodies and cast individual features into relief. He can make out the nervous glances shared by the newly freed slaves as they venture forth towards the fire before retreating again, back to the familiar safety of the house. 

Seeing one slave do exactly such, he snorts, his mouth twisting bitterly. What use are slaves in battle? What hope have they of facing down those robed in the blood-red cloaks of Rome without warriors, fighters at their side? And why risk life and limb for love of a woman either long dead or else gone so far from grasp her touch would burn cold?

He casts a swift glance across the courtyard. Spartacus is easily visible, all ropey muscle and hard flesh as he crouches beside Crixus, a bulkier shadow against the wall beside him. Even from this distance, Agron can see the Gaul’s face is drawn tight with fear for his woman despite the words that Spartacus speaks earnestly into his ear. 

Mira stands nearby, wrapped in a warm blanket seized from the household. As always, she is Spartacus’ ever-present shadow, yet she shares company tonight with a girl who bears such flaxen hair as the women in Agron’s home village, a place long lost to the past since he and Duro had first been forced into slavery by an ill-gone war.

Duro. Agron sets his jaw, determined not fall again to the bitter misery that has threatened to consume him since his brother’s death. This time, at least, he is given asylum from grief as his thoughts of Duro stir thought of another instead. 

Without meaning to, he finds himself searching for the Syrian boy, Tiberius. Initially standing but one amongst many slaves freed, the boy had certainly made impression, tempting death not once but twice since the death of his dominus; first with attempt on Spartacus, then again during his exchange with Agron when, absent blade to hand, the boy had struck with other weapon. Though Agron was loathe to admit it, his words had cut deep, stirring forth jagged memory of his brother’s gaze fixed upon the sky, his eyes forever bereft of life and the laughter that had enabled the darkest of days to be borne. 

Narrowing his eyes against the darkness and flickering shadows, he looks for the tell-tale shine of raven-black hair, the gleam of dark skin and soft limbs that would reveal Tiberius’s position. From first setting eyes on Tiberius, Agron had realised that though the boy lacked muscle, he nevertheless stood distinctive enough to tell at a glance, his looks fully befitting one of the station he had so proudly proclaimed. 

Now Agron wonders if the boy knows how close he had come to death only hours ago when evening had first settled upon the villa, the battle Agron had fought with himself to not slit that slender throat. He thinks it likely, for Tiberius’s dark gaze had held a gleam of intelligence, as well as a spark long quenched by his Roman masters, one which Agron knows has only now begun to flicker back to life. It would be a pity if it came to be the death of him if he failed to hold it in check. 

Lost in his thoughts, Agron finds his attention caught by the low growl of a night creature somewhere outside the villa walls. He startles, then tenses every muscle, readying himself for attack. When none comes, he leans forward, looking over the villa wall into the darkness beneath it. Yet all he sees is the lithe black shadow of a young wolf, its sleek fur and pricked ears just visible for the briefest of moments before it vanishes, cloaked in a mixture of hovering mist and grim night. 

He scowls then curses, harsh and loud. Already they face sufficient threat without that of a wolf pack haunting the land about the villa. He considers. Surely it would be best to take action now, rather than waiting for slow response of others. 

Carefully, he rises into a crouch so he is balanced on the balls of his feet, then places the bare length of his sword upon the carved brick and picks up a roughly hewn spear instead. He hefts its weight in his hand and lifts it above his shoulder, eyes narrowed as he searches for his prey, looking for the black shine of fur that will reveal its position. 

Sure enough, the next time the camp-fire in the yard behind him flares upwards, hissing and spitting as an ember cracks, he glimpses the wolf, its eyes gleaming red as it slinks along the base of the wall. He hurls the spear with all his strength, striving to drive it deep within the creature’s flesh, ending its life and perhaps providing much needed food for many mouths. 

Yet his efforts are to no avail. The wolf doges, an agile mass of moving fur and muscle, and the spear is left quivering in the earth. The creature does not flee into the empty night, however, but rather runs straight along the base of the villa wall, leaving nothing behind but a low moaning howl, cloaked in pain and uncertainty so deep it chills him to his bones. 

Muttering a curse, he leans further forward over the wall, only to nearly topple off as a shout echoes across the villa from its north end, where another guard stands watch. Knowing that such warning can mean only the approach of some Romans, Agron seizes both his weapons and swings himself off the wall so that he lands in a crouch in the courtyard, little knowing that before the dawn rises, he will call the boy, Tiberius, by another name entirely.

\-------------------

His legs ache fiercely as he runs along the forest path, bringing up the rear of their small yet triumphant party. Ahead of him, Donar, Gannicus and two of the Gauls carry the rough litter that bears Oenamaus, with Spartacus and Crixus forging path ahead. They move at a steady pace, covering as much ground as possible as the night begins to fade, casting their way into mysterious, half-light as the sun begins to struggle over the horizon.

Mira runs at his side, her dark hair coated with the grey ash that had plumed up from the arena they had left burning behind them in Capua. It lingers in his throat, foul and black. Filled with sudden disgust for it, he turns his head to the side and spits, ridding his mouth of the bitter taste and clearing his throat and lungs.

As he does so, he catches sight of a loping grey shadow, half-hidden in the straggly undergrowth of bushes and fallen trees that line the path. He slows, drawing almost to a stop, but Mira urges him on with a brush of her arm as she passes and he shakes his head. He is seeing shadows, ghosts and nothing else, brought to bear by his time again in the arena. 

Yet the dark flash of movement comes again and he halts, uncertain. Mira calls his name but he ignores her, his attention caught by a shadowy glimpse of black fur amidst the undergrowth, as well as the bare gleam of a wolf's sharp canines.

Ahead of him, Mira turns. 'Do not fall behind,' she hisses. 'We cannot linger!'

He considers telling her that deems haste of less worth than threat of having his throat ripped out by savage jaws, yet Mira has already turned back to the path, leaving him to follow. Biting back a curse, he lets her go and wraps his hand around the hilt of his sword, drawing it slowly from his belt as he slows to a stop. 

He can make out the wolf a little better now. It looks at him before turning to pad off along the trail after Spartacus and the others, picking up its pace as it goes. Something about it seems familiar and suddenly Agron is sure it is the same wolf he had glimpsed from the wall of the temple so many nights ago. 

With blade in hand, he follows it, every step cautious, knowing that he is but an instant from death should the wolf turn on him. Yet the wolf simply trots onwards. 

Agron frowns. Its stride, so easy and strong the last time he had laid eyes upon it, had changed. Suddenly concerned for the creature, Agron dares to narrow the distance between them until he jogs but a length of a man's body away. It does not take him long to realise that the wolf's coat, once glossy and black, looks unkempt and is thinly stretched across its ribs, and its breath is coming hard in harsh pants as it strides onward, its once steady pace rough and laboured.

Again the wolf turns and looks at him and Agron is struck by the shallow cut that stretches across one of its hooded eyes. It looks fortunate to have not lost its sight, if not its very life. 

Without warning, the wolf peels off into the undergrowth and disappears. Just before it goes, however, it glances at Agron one last time and, for just one moment, he sees something there - recognition, affection, fear. A moment passes in which all else bar the two of them cease to exist and then the wolf is gone. 

Startled, Agron starts after it then draws to a halt, recalling himself as Mira's voice floats back amongst the trees just before she herself appears.

'Agron?' she says questioningly. 

He shakes himself. What is he thinking, his attention snatched by a creature that would rip out his throat at the smallest excuse. He lifts a hand to Mira in response and forces himself into a jog once more.

'We will soon be home,' Mira tells him. 

He nods, glad for the information, and together they move forward to catch up with the others. The aching in his legs is becoming more pronounced and he can see that Mira is starting to fade as well. He is sure that their companions are faring little better, particularly those who bear the stretcher.

Finally, just after daylight dawns, they enter the temple in triumph and he stands upon the steps to declare their victory, telling the gathered crowds news of the arena fallen to ash and dust. 

A quiet voice calls him aside and he turns to see Nasir, pale and thin but gloriously alive, approaching him. He grins and closes the distance between them in a few short strides, glad beyond telling to see an answering grin on Nasir's face. He had seized opportunity upon their parting, knowing that if he perished in the attempt to free Crixus and his fellows, he would regret meeting the gods without knowing the softness of Nasir's mouth beneath his own. The first press of his lips upon Nasir's had set his nerves racing, only to be replaced by the beating of his heart when he had felt the gentle touch returned.

Now there is nothing but affection in Nasir's eyes as Agron cups his face between his hands and kisses him. Yet as he wraps Nasir in his arms, he can not help but note the cut that stretches across Nasir's eye, so like the one that stretched across the wolf's. 

\-------------------- 

The thought stays with him over the next few days, though he does his best to dismiss it. The two wounds had been identical - the wolf's and Nasir's. And the wolf had been gaunt, injured, just as Nasir had been. But what he thinks is impossible. It is coincidence, nothing more. He tells himself that and finds himself believing it as days pass and the wolf does not appear again. 

Gradually, his mind turns to other things, though Nasir remains strong in his thoughts. He is often by Agron’s side, and Agron is never quite sure if Nasir is the one who seeks him out or if it is the other way around. They share meals and conversation and Agron discovers that Nasir possesses a keen mind to match his beauty, that his grin will appear like the breaking of the sun, that his stubbornness bears rival to Agron's own. Days turn into weeks and gradually he invites Nasir to share his quarters with him, and finally his bed.

For one whose demeanour is mild by day, Nasir is a most eager bedfellow, delighting, Agron decides, in being able to choose and claim his own pleasures as want takes him. His cheeks warm as he thinks of the slow slide of hard flesh against giving muscle, of Nasir panting, open-mouthed, as he finds his release. For his own part, he finds himself compelled to bring Nasir to greater and greater heights, losing himself in his determined worship of the Syrian's slim body that is growing ever more muscular due to long hours spent training with Agron under the sun, followed by nights of equal exertion.

It is at the end of one of these days, when the sun has long slipped below the horizon, that he wakes to find Nasir absent his side, the couch they share still warm from the curve of his body. At first he thinks no more of it and makes to roll over, tugging at the heavy furs that have slipped to one side, yet a noise catches his attention and he opens his eyes to see a shadow flick past the blankets that make up the walls of their quarters, starting off as that of a man, yet within a moment shifting into that of something else.

Agron freezes, unsure if dreams plague him or if what he sees is real. He waits, his throat tight, until finally the howl of a lone wolf decides him. 

Swallowing thickly, he sets his mouth in a firm line and slides from the couch, casting the furs aside. Without a sound, he gathers his cloak, a sword and a round shield that he has been teaching Nasir how to use, then exits the tent, heading in the direction in which the shadow has slipped away. 

He sees it before him, a soft blur of grey moving at a slow trot through night. It covers the ground with surprising speed and he shifts into a jog himself, determined not to lose it to the darkness as they exit the camp through a gap in a wall he has never before noticed. 

Despite his best efforts, the shadow, whatever it is, out-paces him and he finds himself wandering fruitlessly across the stony plain outside the temple until he reaches the nearby stretch of forest, where tall pines tower away into the night, reaching for the glittering heavens.

Breathing in the fresh scent of the pine needles that scatter the forest floor, he steps among the slim trunks of the trees uneasily, half-expecting an attack by man or beast. All around him, the forest has gone quiet, absent its usual sounds. Not a bird calls, not an animal slithers past, not a branch breaks except for those that crack painfully underneath his bare feet, despite his best efforts at silence.

Finally, he sees a flickering red light through the close-knit trees. He approaches it, his step as soft he can make it until he finally moves forward into the light of a small camp-fire hidden in the centre of a small glade.

His breath catches. Before him, sprawled on its belly with its nose towards the fire, is a wolf, its long ink-black coat rippling as a sudden breeze brushes through the clearing.

Agron reaches for his sword just as the wind changes and before he knows what is happening, the wolf stiffens, then rises to a crouch with a movement too swift for human eyes to see. Its teeth are bared and shining white and its fur gleams in the light and Agron dares not look away, for fear that it will vanish. 

Finally, endlessly, he is forced to blink as another gust of wind blows a gust of smoke into his eyes. He breaks his gaze with the wolf for a single moment, and when he looks again it is Nasir crouched by the fire, his eyes bright as he rests lightly on the balls of his feet, his skin gleaming with sweat and warmth and something else, an…otherness…that Agron cannot describe.

Nasir is gazing at him, silent and still and Agron knows that this moment will guide the rest of his life.

He steps forward. 

By the fire, Nasir stays frozen for a moment, radiating wariness. Then his shoulders drop and he seems to hunch in on himself, in fear, shame, Agron does not know. All he knows is he wants it to stop.

He lets go his sword, tucking it back within his belt, and continues to walk forward with smooth, unceasing footsteps that bring him ever closer to Nasir. Finally, he is within arm’s reach.

Looking down into dark, unreadable eyes, he is tempted to reach out and run a hand over Nasir’s head, to cup his chin and tell him not to fear, that he will not harm him. But he does not. He knows that the wrong movement will make Nasir flee into the night, never to be seen again, not as man or wolf. 

So instead he crouches down and holds his hands out to the crackling warmth of the small camp-fire that suddenly sparks and sputters, sending flames leaping up high into the night. ‘What name do you go by, little man?’ he asks softly.

Beside him, Nasir is silent. But Agron can tell his question, the very same he had spoken the night they had met, has thrown him. So he waits and finally Nasir responds, his voice hushed, though a note of defiance rings through for those who know to look for it.

‘Nasir,’ he says.

Agron lifts his chin in acknowledgement. ‘Your brother called you that?’

Nasir nods silently and Agron echoes it, rubbing the palms of his hands together to garner some warmth. He then tilts his head to the side so he can see Nasir out of the corner of his eye. ‘And what meaning does ‘Nasir’ hold?’

There is a sharp intake of breath beside him and for a moment Agron wonders if he has stepped too far, or worse, erred. But then answer comes, no more than a whisper but none the less for it. 

‘Nighteyes.’

Agron cannot help it. He breaks into a toothy smile, knowing that he must look a fool yet unable to stop himself. _Nighteyes._ He laughs aloud, sudden and boisterous, and tests the name in his mind before tasting it again on his tongue. The name fits Nasir in both his forms, calling to mind the raven coat of the wolf as well as the ink-black strands of hair that fall forward whenever Nasir tilts his head to receive Agron’s kiss. It mirrors the lightness of his step and size, the way he moves through the shadows without a sound, the dark gleam of intelligence captured in his eyes and, key to it all, the mystery that Agron has finally uncovered. 

‘A name well suited,’ he comments finally, doing his best to straighten his grin into an expression more deserving of the gravity of the occasion.

Nasir eyes Agron warily, as though taking his measure, then his lips curve and he finally is again fully the man whom, Agron realises, holds his heart. 

‘Apologies,’ Nasir says, ducking his head.

Agron raises an immediate hand. ‘You are absent need for apology. Was I so blessed as to run as wolf-kind, I would also have held silence.’ He pauses, chewing his cheek in consideration. ‘How long?’

‘Since I stood as a boy.’ 

‘And your dominus…did he hold knowledge upon purchase?’

Nasir shrugs. ‘I know not. The price he paid for me was excessive, yet he never was one to refrain from seeing desire fulfilled, at any cost.’

‘And no other discovered secret?’

Nasir's gaze hardens and he looks away from Agron into the glowing depths of the fire. ‘The collar I bore as slave was of iron, forming cage through which the wolf could not break.’ He pauses, and Agron can read pain every line of him. ‘It burned. For years, every day, against my skin, it burned like fucking brand that left no mark the eye could see.’

Agron's nostrils flare and he realises he is grinding his teeth. He forces himself to stop. 'And when Spartacus took it from your neck-?’

Nasir tears his gaze from the fire. ‘He freed me in more ways than one.’

Agron digests this then stands to his feet. 'Come,' he says. 'We should return to camp.’ He sees Nasir tense and continues, making no sign that he has noticed. ‘And to our bed.’

‘You do not turn from me?’

Nasir's voice is uncertain and Agron's heart swells within his chest. For answer, he reaches forward and cups Nasir’s chin in his hand, tilting his face up so that he can more easily press a kiss against his lips. 

‘Does that answer question?’

Nasir grins and bats his hand away, and it is not long before Agron is started on the path back to the temple with a jet-black wolf padding by his side.

End


End file.
